


Hold Steady, Breathe Easy

by lazarus_girl



Series: Brittana Week 2013 [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of struggling to make it in New York, Santana is on verge of landing her dream job, and a business opportunity could change Brittany’s life completely.</p><p>
  <i>“Through it all, they’ve had each other.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Steady, Breathe Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows canon until S4 and departs thereafter. Written for day six of [Brittana Week](http://brittana-week.tumblr.com) (Favourites from Canon). I went back into Brittana history for inspiration, and chose [this](https://24.media.tumblr.com/861c4bcb8f257b1e215d3f95b3eaca85/tumblr_n3ops0iBOk1txkikoo1_500.png). Click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/a925c2a55f972b12139eec64eae16cdd/tumblr_n3ops0iBOk1txkikoo4_500.png) to see the accompanying art. Thank you, as ever, to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _“They say that when you’re really in love, the world gets_  
 _gossamer and gorgeous, but in my experience … the world_  
 _gets grimy and the love object is in stark relief from its_  
 _surroundings. This is love, a pretty thing on an ugly street.”_  
– Daniel Handler, _Adverbs_.

***

_Atlantic Records, 9am._

That’s all it says on the calendar that’s stuck to the fridge door in their apartment. It looks like nothing much, but it’s actually the biggest day of their lives – well, the biggest since they moved in together, and when Santana said yes to her proposal – on their minds for weeks ever since the phone call came to arrange the time. It’s written in Santana’s cute scrunched-up handwriting, so the ‘O’ of records is a heart instead. She’s always written her words that way, and it used to make Brittany sad that her name never had any O’s in it, because she never got to see what it looked like as often as other people when they used to pass notes back in high school, but then she got something better than Quinn and the other Cheerios; her heart letter was the ‘O’ of ‘I Love You,’ instead.

Brittany touches her hand to it now, feeling the impression on the paper while she waits for the last of Santana’s pancakes to finish cooking (even though she’ll probably be too antsy to eat them). The slope of the letters gets her every time, because she distracted Santana with kisses while she was writing it, and then distracted her some more, with some celebratory sex that made them both ridiculously late for work. Santana said she was jinxing things by constantly telling her she’d get the job and the Atlantic people would be crazy not to hire her. She’ll be the best A and R girl they’ve ever had, because music is in Santana’s blood; she’s so passionate, and hardworking and she has a damn good ear too. Brittany’s always known that, of course, but now she’s seen the proof. OK so, they don’t really sing anywhere apart from in their apartment or in the car – unless Rachel springs a surprise karaoke session at Winnie’s on them – but otherwise, if they’re not listening to music or dancing to it, they go and watch it, everywhere from Joe’s Pub to Madison Square Garden and everything in between. Santana just _knows_ what sounds good and what will sell.

Maybe she _is_ counting their chickens or whatever, but this is everything to Santana – what she’s been working for ever since they graduated from NYU Steinhardt together – so it’s everything to Brittany too. She’s been there for the struggle when they’ve both busted their asses going from one unpaid internship to another, just to rack up experience at different companies; anything to try and to fill up their resumes and make themselves standout against the thousands of other people going for the same positions. With the hours they had left, they took jobs waitressing and bartending, so they could actually pay the bills, and give back some of the money their parents were kind enough to lend. She’s been there for all the disappointments, watching Santana come back to their apartment, dejected when she’s been turned down. Sometimes they cried over it, openly hated it, and seriously debated throwing in the towel and doing their other jobs full-time, just so they can move to a bigger place, even if they’ve gotten too used to Brooklyn to leave it completely. Santana’s a really good bartender, and she makes amazing cocktails for their parties, but Brittany knows it’s not what she’s meant for, just like Santana would tell her that waiting tables was just that, waiting. Waiting for something better. Santana was right, she’s always right.

Through it all, they’ve had each other. Even though their place isn’t much bigger than a shoebox – it’s _their_ shoebox, together – and it’s been so bad they’ve had months living off ramen wearing everything they own to keep warm; huddled together when their heating gave out during one of the coldest winters they’ve ever experienced, she wouldn’t change it. Not one moment. This is their time now; Brittany can feel it in her bones. Santana’s worked her way from independent record labels, Downtown Music and S-Curve, little more than the coffee girl or stuck answering the phone, to a huge PR firm, Blake Zidell and Associates, working with their music clients. Though it wasn’t quite what she wanted, she was willing to stay there, and stick at it to get a paying job; until someone told her about the vacancy at Atlantic, and Brittany persuaded her to go for it. Brittany meanwhile, has worked just about everywhere; running around on student productions and micro-budget features, before immersing herself in social media and content editing. Her break came this year, when she ended up as an analyst at Vimeo, just so she could bankroll Fondue for Two and buy better equipment. It’s bigger than she ever imagined, and she’s contemplating taking it full time. Santana’s the only one who doesn’t think she’s completely lost her mind.

Santana’s been awake since six, a nervous ball of excitement, unable to sleep. Brittany woke up not long after, disturbed by all her pacing, and the faint lingering smell of cigarettes because Santana snuck out on the balcony to smoke. She’d usually be mad at her, because it’s gross – even if it does look kind of sexy – but Brittany will forgive her almost anything today, because she’s been under so much stress at work, even before this interview came along. It’s a little after seven and she wants to make sure Santana’s calmed down a little before she has to go and negotiate the subway and find the Atlantic offices. They’ve been here long enough now that it’s easy, but Santana hates being late, especially when she has to go anywhere further than midtown.

Ever since they got out of the shower – Brittany suggested they go in together, and it took the edge off of Santana’s nerves, just for a little while at least – she’s been rushing back and forth between the kitchen and their bedroom, trying out different outfits. Brittany stopped commenting four outfits ago, because she can tell by the look on Santana’s face when something’s already been vetoed, and once that’s happened, Santana’s too stubborn to listen to her, even if she’s right. Santana’s stuck in a panic spiral now, not wanting to look too dressed up (so it looks like she’s too business-like and not creatively-minded) and not too dressed down (so it seems like she doesn’t care and won’t put the work in). Oh, and then there’s the side of Santana that’s perpetually terrified of coming off as ‘slutty.’ A lot of people assume that just because she’s a pretty girl, she’s not very smart (those same kind of people think the same things about Brittany, surprised at how good she is with the whole number crunching thing). Deep down, Brittany knows Santana’s still hard on herself, and even though she oozes confidence most of the time, she’s incredibly insecure about her body and how she looks.

Brittany’s never thought she wore anything that made her look that way. Sure, she can look smoking hot and sexy as hell when she pulls out all the stops for their dates; the skin-tight mini dresses and skirts are still a thing, but dear _God_ does she make them work. But there are other times, when they go to dinner with her parents or the theatre, where she just looks breathtakingly gorgeous, and Brittany falls in love with her that little bit more. She’s biased where Santana’s concerned; she could wear pretty much anything, and Brittany would love her in it, because she loves the girl and not the clothes. Brittany loves her in sweatpants and t-shirts when they spend lazy Sundays on the couch. Brittany loves her when she wears her glasses to work at home. Brittany loves her with her natural curly hair and without a scrap of make-up on her face. But, Brittany loves her most of all when she’s completely naked, and their bodies are so close together she can hear Santana’s heart pounding away strong and steady in her chest. That’s where she really fell in love with her, all those years ago, during those nights where nervous, fumbled explorations turned into much more, and she learned who Santana really was. Where she learned the difference between Santana the girl and Santana the Cheerio. Where she learned the difference between fucking and making love. It’s not the nakedness that matters, not really; it’s that Santana trusts Brittany enough to be naked in front of her. Trusts her enough to be exposed and vulnerable in every sense of the word. That’s where Santana’s at her most beautiful, and Brittany will never get tired of reminding her.

“Honey,” Brittany calls, softly, hearing another drawer being slammed closed, “Are you nearly done? I made breakfast for you.”

“Almost,” Santana replies, sounding even more frazzled than she was when Brittany started cooking. “You’re an angel. Thank you, baby,” she continues, louder. Even though Brittany can’t see, she knows Santana is smiling.

Brittany pulls the pan off the heat, tossing the last of the pancakes on to the waiting stack in the middle of the table. She’s busy setting out cutlery and pouring orange juice when she hears the tapping of heels, and Santana emerges from the bedroom, smiling nervously.

“So, will this do?” she gestures to herself, and then does a little spin. “You’d employ me right? It’s not too much?”

Brittany tilts her head appreciatively, looking Santana up and down. She’s wearing one of her favourite outfits: a crisp white blouse, grey pencil skirt, and black heels, like the ladies on _Mad Men_. Her hair is all tousled and curly, like when she played Rizzo, and it’s only when Santana clears her throat does she realise that she’s been staring for way too long.

“Perfect,” she beams. “Super professional.”

“You think?” Santana asks, unconvinced, hovering near the doorway, smoothing her skirt.

“Totally,” Brittany nods. “And you look super hot.”

“You’re biased,” Santana crosses the room and pecks her on the cheek, all minty fresh from cleaning her teeth. “I think this outfit needs a little something else, don’t you? A little sparkle.”

Brittany chuckles, because she knew Santana couldn’t go without at least a little jewellery. She loves her accessories, and even though she’s already wearing some diamond studs, it does need something, even if she’s not quite sure what.

“One second,” Santana holds up a finger, disappearing back into the bedroom again, and Brittany hears the familiar rustling of Santana’s jewellery box as she goes through it. “Found you!” she exclaims, happily, trying to keep from smiling when she reappears. “Will you help? I can never do the clasps on these with my right hand.”

It takes Brittany a few moments to turn her attention away from the food, swirling maple syrup on to the pancake stack to save Santana ruining her clothes. She’s still in t-shirt and sweats mode, not needing to go into work until much later. When she looks up, Santana unfurls her palm, revealing something Brittany hasn’t seen in years. It’s Santana’s heart bracelet from Tiffany’s. She remembers the day they drove to Columbus and went shopping with Santana’s father’s credit card as if it were yesterday, because they walked around arm-in-arm, like they were really important, Santana pretending like she was some old-time gentleman because no one else knew them. Whatever she wanted, Santana bought for her, slapping the card on the counter, watching the cashiers’ confused faces each time. She still has her own bracelet; it’s of a whale’s tail, beautiful and delicate and the most beautiful thing she’s ever been given – well, other than Santana herself, that is. They were barely sixteen, racking up hundreds of dollars in clothes, shoes, and make-up. “Divorce has it’s perks” Santana told her, but Brittany didn’t see any perks. She only saw that Santana was really angry and sad a lot of the time, and she didn’t know how long it would stay inside of her.

Not very long at all.

“You kept this?” Brittany asks, surprised to see it again after all this time.

“Of course! It reminds me of that day in Columbus and how much fun we had.” Santana replies, quiet and careful, like she always is when she’s talking about something really important. “But, it reminds me of you too, because you picked it. Whenever it … when it was too much, and I felt really sad, I’d just take it out and look at it, because it makes me feel happy. I think it’s lucky.”

Brittany doesn’t need Santana to explain what ‘too much’ was. She was there. ‘Too much’ is keeping her feelings all bottled up until she couldn’t breathe anymore. ‘Too much,’ is Artie, and Karofsky and Sam. ‘Too much’ is Finn, and Reggie Salazar and Santana’s abuela. ‘Too much’ is everything they both thought they’d never be able to get through, because Santana could never imagine – or let herself imagine – happiness like this, while still being that bitchy, mean Head Cheerio that everyone was terrified of. Everyone except Brittany, that is, because she was the only one who knew how terrified Santana was of everyone else.

“I think it’s lucky too,” Brittany breathes, forcing away the sadness that’s threatening to make her throat close up and make her cry. “C’mere, let me help.”

Today the only tears they’ll be crying are happy ones, when they go out to dinner and celebrate Santana’s new job. She’s done this hundreds of times with watches and necklaces for Santana in the past, but now her hands are shaking and it takes twice as long to get the clasp to catch. When it’s finally on, she twists it, so the hearts face the right way, stroking the soft skin on the inside of Santana’s wrist with her thumb. It still looks as pretty as it did the day the man in the store put it on Santana for the very first time.

“Now it’s perfect.” Santana smiles, bright and full. The kind of smile that makes her eyes smile too, even though Brittany never used to understand what that meant when her grandma used to say it. Now she knows. They get this pretty sparkle in them that has nothing to do with the bright halogen lighting in their kitchen.

“It is,” she nods. “It is,” she repeats, looking at Santana instead of the bracelet.

Santana swallows hard, and looks like she wants to say something about what’s just happened, but she doesn’t. Instead, she does what Santana always does when she’s overwhelmed; she changes the subject, full of teasing and jokes instead.

“Look at you, all wifey material with your little apron!” she smiles, jabbing her playfully. “Cutie.”

“Lucky you snapped me up then, huh?” Brittany blushes, glancing away, grabbing her orange juice to drink and distract herself. It’s weird to think that at some point she’ll be introduced as Santana’s wife when they meet people. It’s kind of mind-blowing even if she was the one to ask Santana in the first place.

“Uh-huh,” Santana smirks, picking up a forkful of pancake. “Ugh, B, these are so _good_ they never taste the same when I do it,” she declares, sliding into her usual seat, Brittany sitting down opposite.

“Unicorn magic, and too much Food Network,” Brittany smiles.

They’ve been living together for a long time now, and they’re past that stage where they suck at everything, and have to call their parents every two seconds. They actually do laundry and have people over for dinner instead of just throwing parties and getting wasted – they still do, sometimes, tumbling into bed together giggly and drunk – but she really likes quiet moments like this much more. She likes sitting across the table from Santana, watching her eat breakfast. This morning, it’s more like she’s pushing it around her plate and eating every fourth bite she cuts out for herself, but still, it’s nice. Just _being_ in the same space is nice, and Brittany tries not to take it for granted even when they get pissed at each other and argue – it’s only once in a while, and the make-up sex is ridiculously hot, so it’s almost worth the yelling – because for a long time, it wasn’t that way. They were on different paths for a while, and that turned out OK eventually, but the life she has now; her work, her friends, and everything that’s going on with Fondue for Two, wouldn’t be worth half as much if she was alone. Everything is better when she has Santana to share it with.

“I’d marry you on the strength of these, seriously. I wish I could enjoy them properly, but my stomach is all in knots. I really don’t want to fuck this up,” Santana shakes her head, frustrated. “You finish these. You worked hard and I don’t want to waste them.”

Santana pushes her plate across toward her. Brittany’s never seen her this bad before, not even when they were in waiting backstage at show choir competitions or Cheerios Championships.

Brittany reaches across the table and takes Santana’s hand. “Hey, it’ll be fine. You’ll be great. They’ll totally fall in love with you and hire you on the spot.”

“You’re sweet.” Santana softens, kissing the back of Brittany’s hand, “I think you might be a little biased though, baby,” she continues dropping her hand away.

“Maybe,” Brittany chuckles. “They’d be crazy not to though.”

Now it’s Santana’s that’s embarrassed, turning her engagement ring around on her finger like she always does when she’s anxious and needs something to occupy her hands. Santana says that ring is her touchstone; that whenever she runs her fingertips over the band, it reminds of Brittany, so it’s like they’re together, even when they’re far apart.

Santana sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “I mean, I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I talk to you about music and it’s easy, I just play what I like, and it’s so much easier than trying to explain things in words. How am I going to do that in an interview?” she pauses picking up Brittany’s hand, and tapping at her engagement ring. “This right here, it’s down payment.”

Brittany’s brows furrow. “On what?”

“On coming good, and taking care of my girl, that’s what.”

If Brittany didn’t love Santana to death already, she would after that. Santana’s always been fiercely loyal and protective of her, even when they were just friends, but since they became girlfriends, and more than girlfriends, it’s gotten even more important to her. It’s adorable, and melts her heart completely.

“Well, you do know that ‘your girl’ can take care of you, too, right?” Brittany leans across, and kisses her softly, tasting maple syrup and orange juice on her lips.

When they pull grudgingly apart, and she glances down at Santana’s bracelet again, and the exact thing Santana needs to completely ace her interview pops into Brittany’s head.

“Use the mixtapes you make me!”

“Huh?”

“For your interview!” Brittany springs up out of her seat. “Use the mixtapes you make me to show them. You put tons of different kinds on there. Stuff that you’ve found that’s not even on iTunes or anything. Sometimes it’s because of the lyrics and sometimes it’s because of how it sounds,” she continues, running towards the living room where they keep all their old DVDs and CDs because they can’t bear to part with them.

She’s ruining their system because she’s flipping through all the albums so quickly – Santana’s really nerdy and likes it in genres, like it looks in a real record store – and has to double back to make sure she hasn’t missed any by accident. The tapes look like real cassette tapes from her dad’s car, but they have tiny little USBs in the side, so you can take them to parties and put them into people’s laptops and play what’s on them. Even before she listened, Brittany thought it was the coolest thing ever. She loves old things; like vintage clothes stores, yellowing old books and crackly vinyl, but tapes are the best of them all. You can’t get people’s thoughts in download. She always waits to read the insert, so it’s a surprise.

Santana’s eyes widen as it suddenly clicks in her head, following behind her. “Fuck Britt that’s _fucking_ perfect!” she yells, grabbing Brittany and smothering her with kisses. The last one lingers, and Brittany groans into it, gripping the collection of tapes tight instead of Santana because if that happens, no one will be leaving the house at all, and they’ll end up back in bed.

“You,” Santana exclaims, breathlessly, when they break apart, “really _are_ a genius.” They stay with their foreheads pressed together for a moment until Santana reluctantly pulls away from her. “Alright, I gotta get going,” she kisses Brittany again, a wet, loud peck of a kiss that makes them both laugh. “Thank you. I hope the meeting with Jess and Gary goes OK,” she adds, as she walks back to the bedroom.

“Thanks. Fingers crossed … and toes too. It’ll be fine … won’t it?”

She’s suddenly nervous out of nowhere, and her voice gets the same jittery edge she’s heard in Santana’s all morning.

“It will, baby. It will.” Santana calls, rummaging through her bag to check she has everything. “You know talent when you see it,” she smiles, giving Brittany’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Trust me.”

Brittany just smiles as she hands Santana the tapes, because of _course_ she remembers her meeting. They’re a pretty small media company, just starting out, but they’re looking to invest in Fondue for Two and take it to the next stage. Making the business plan and thinking it all through is the only thing that’s made her last Vimeo report doable, because it’s becoming work instead of being exciting and fun like it used to be. She loves the people she works with, and she’s desperate to make both halves of her life work, but it feels too difficult to balance everything.

“You have everything?” Brittany asks, as Santana pats the pockets of her jacket, panicked.

“I think … I hope! Oh fuck, I’m not ready!”

Santana’s all frazzled again, running around, checking her hair, her teeth, and her lipstick in the mirror by the door.

“You’ll knock this out of the park today. I know it,” Brittany assures, waiting until she has what little of Santana’s attention she can get before she continues, “I believe in you.”

Santana stops dead in her tracks and turns around, rushing back to kiss her again as a thank you. It’s slower and deeper than every other they’ve shared today. It says everything that Santana’s too distracted to right now. ‘I know I’m a mess, and it looks like I don’t appreciate you, but I do. I really do.’

“You too, Britt,” Santana says, when she steps back. “Whatever happens, we’ll meet up, and have our lunch date, OK? I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Definitely. Can’t break our tradition. Now, go,” Brittany turns Santana by shoulders, shooing her away. “If you stay any longer, you’ll be late. Go get your train. I love you,” she waves needlessly when Santana turns back and blows her a kiss, winking.

When the front door closes with slam, Brittany lets out a long sigh, saying a quiet “Good luck” in her exhale, because Santana’s too superstitious to let her actually say it. She heads straight for her laptop to immerse herself in emails, hoping its distraction enough until Santana calls. Even so, she clock-watches, typing her replies to Blake, Brad, Cameron, and Michelle while glancing between her keyboard and her phone, trying not to panic when she’s dressed for the day and there’s still nothing.

She’s on the subway herself a while later when her phone finally buzzes in her jacket pocket, and it takes a few seconds for her hearing to adjust so she can make out Santana against the noise in the carriage, plugging a finger in her other ear to try and help. Santana’s somewhere really noisy and busy too, so she’s yelling to make herself heard.

_“Guess who you’re talking to?”_

“My super sexy gorgeous girlfriend and soon-to-be wife?”

The guy next to her smirks in this really gross, creepy way, and she wants to move, but then the girl opposite smiles and she doesn’t feel so threatened. Why the hell shouldn’t she be proud of her? Santana’s the most beautiful girl in the world.

_“Well, obviously!”_

Brittany can practically hear the smugness in Santana’s voice, but she lets her have her moment, because she already knows how this conversation will go. Her heart’s going crazy already, but she just wants to hear Santana say it, because they’ve waited so long, and she deserves to be happy again.

_“You’re also talking to Atlantic Records’ new A and R girl!”_

“Really?” her voice goes all silly and high and she clears her throat to make herself talk normally.

_“Really, really.”_

She makes that cute little high-pitched whine that happens right before she usually giggles and goes crazy. Brittany can imagine her now outside the building, pacing back and forth trying to contain herself when really she wants to go nuts.

“I’m so fucking proud of you! I knew you’d do it!”

She doesn’t care that she’s smiling until her jaw aches, she can barely keep still  
and now everyone is looking. Someone else has finally seen how amazing Santana is, and she just wants to run around and tell everyone.

_“I can add ‘Santana and Brittany’s Infinite Playlist’ to the stuff I need to thank you for, because that musical love letter is part of what swung it, B!”_

“What?” she asks, not quite believing it, because she didn’t mean to give her the tape version of that. It’s just their private little thing, totally different to Santana’s mixes. What’s more, it won’t even make any sense to anyone who isn’t them.

_“The guy played it while we were talking and, it just calmed me down and focussed me, and it was a breeze after that. Anything you want done for the next decade or whatever, it’s yours baby. I owe you so big. I was tanking until then.”_

She laughs, mischief and just enough flirtatiousness creeping into her voice when she asks, “Anything?”

_“If that ‘anything’ is you being all cute and coy coz you’re on the subway and don’t want to say the word ‘sex’ out loud, then yes. That. Lots of it.”_

“Oh really? I could be open to that.”

_“Uh-huh, I bet. How about in every room on every surface? Because I’ve been neglecting you, and I need to remind you how much I adore you, with my mouth and my hands … a lot.”_

“Definitely. Remind me why I’m going to this meeting again instead of coming to see you?”

_“Because, my gorgeous girl, we have to go and do this thing called life sometimes. You know, where we disguise ourselves as adults and have careers important shit like that. As much as it pains me, we have to leave our bedroom and go outside, because our pure sexiness can’t pay the bills. Tragic.”_

She laughs again, and the last of what Santana says is partly drowned out by the station announcement, so all she makes out is something about “picking up where they left off” and “hours” and “positions” with some filthy Spanish words that Santana taught her so they could talk in code around their friends without them knowing. Brittany’s sold, whatever happens this morning. Santana’s still talking as she gets off the train and walks toward her meeting, trying her best not to skip along the sidewalk like she’s six years old or die of embarrassment from what Santana’s saying to her in public, weaving in between stone-faced businessmen and women talking on their phones. Somehow, Brittany knows their conversation isn’t quite like this one.

“Santana,” she warns, feeling herself glowing. “You have to stop, it’s making my brain melt. She’s stops at the crosswalk and waits for the light to change. “Gary and Jess are right across the street. I can’t cross and talk to you.”

_“Your patience will be rewarded. Trust me. Multiple times. Anyway, I’ll see you soon. I love you.”_

“I love you too. Even if you are a massive tease.”

_“B, it’s not teasing if you can back it up.”_

“Will you stop?!” Brittany chuckles, looking up to the sky.

_“Sorry, sorry!”_

Santana’s not in the least bit sorry, but it doesn’t really matter. Brittany’s glad to have her real girl back. She’s been so anxious and preoccupied that they haven’t had an easy conversation like this for weeks. Though she didn’t think it was possible, she’s missed Santana, even though she hasn’t gone anywhere at all.

_“Go kill it, babe. Metaphorically speaking. Work that sexy little power suit. I can see it now, Brittany fucking S. Pierce dot com.”_

“I like the sound of that,” she smiles, letting herself imagine just for a moment, wondering if she could be on one of those huge bus ads or billboards one day. “I’ll call you to tell you how it went, OK?”

_“Deal. Lunch is on me. No arguments. I want to spoil you. Good luck. I love you.”_

For the first time in the course of their entire relationship, Santana hangs up first after sending her a kiss down the phone. Feeling just the right mix of nervous, happy, and excited, Brittany crosses the street, confidence bolstered as she goes inside the building, portfolio and business plan under her arm. What Santana’s said might not seem a lot, but every word of encouragement she’s given makes this all seem much less difficult. Santana’s positively delirious, and it’s catching. She _can_ do this. She will get the backing she needs, and prove everyone who’s ever doubted her wrong. Anything really _is_ possible if you work hard and want it bad enough. The life she’s building together with Santana is proof of that.


End file.
